


scandalous

by notavodkashot



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Don't you know you shouldn't play Fuck Marry Kill with your coworkers, F/M, Hook-Up, Not So Different After All, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: They're supposed to be filming a music video; but neither of them is particularly good at doing what they're supposed to.
Relationships: Nezu | Piers/Rurina | Nessa
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	scandalous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nainoana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nainoana/gifts).



> My prompt was "fuck, marry, kill" and any characters, and I'm still not quite sure how I ended up here.

“C’mon,” Piers says, voice low enough no one else will hear, “lemme buy you lunch.” 

Nessa’s first instinct is to point out they’re in the middle of a shoot and they can’t just _walk out_ , but then she remembers the shoot is for _his_ dumb music video and their photography director and actual director have been having a hissing spat for the last twenty minutes, so it’s not exactly like they’ll be missed. Besides, she is hungry and it’s not like she knows her way around Spikemuth that well – no one knows their way around Spikemuth that well, she reckons, not even most people who live there, the entire town is dark and twisty and custom designed to get people hopelessly lost at every turn. 

“This is a karaoke bar,” Nessa points out, as Piers waves over the apathetic-looking guy behind the counter and then points with his head to lead her into an empty room. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, slumping down into the plushy seats with a sigh, “but they serve the best fish and chips you’re gonna get in town.” He pauses and then squints at her. “You like fish, right?” 

Nessa arches an eyebrow. 

“No,” she deadpans, sarcastic, “I’m allergic.” 

“Just being polite, love,” Piers retorts, chuckling at her, clearly amused. “You don’t gotta be a dick about it.” 

He is, is the thing. He’s infuriatingly polite and annoyingly considerate. She wonders how much of his public persona was drama stirred by Rose, public perception of his chosen type specialty and just the fact he strikes her as the sort of person who prefers to be left alone. It’s an odd combo, for a budding rock star. Although to call his meteoric rise to fame as _budding_ strikes her as almost disrespectful. Piers is good at what he does, and ever since he retired from the Gym Leader circuit, the world has certainly taken notice. Food is good and she’s just realized she’s never really had a chance to talk to him, so she asks him about it, what life is like for him, now. 

They move in weirdly similar circles, sister spheres of the entertainment industry: their gripes are familiar and there’s camaraderie to it. 

“I just barely avoided the fuck-marry-kill scandal,” Nessa points out, three or four beers in, waiting for the second round of food, as she leans back in the surprisingly comfortable couch, fingers idly scrolling through her phone while Piers picks another song. “Valiantly resisted the urge to like even the best ones.” 

“The what now,” he asks, and she blinks at the blank incomprehension on his face. 

“There’s a meme going about,” Nessa explains, “it’s—” 

“I know what fuck-marry-kill is,” Piers replies, eyebrows arched as he throws himself dramatically on the other side of the couch, as a nice base begins thumping from the speakers. “I’m wondering how the hell that makes it into _scandal_.” 

Nessa snorts. 

“When Opal’s PR intern posts about it from the official Ballonlea account, instead of her own.” Nessa grins, despite herself, at the meanspirited cackle Piers lets out through his teeth. “It started trending and then everyone was doing it, and then it turned around and people got mad and started taking the kill opinions as… y’know. Actual threats. It was a very entertaining day to be online.” 

He stares at her for a moment, before laughing again. 

“I’ll take your word for it, love.” 

He’s not too bad, really. Though that realization is probably just the fact the food is great – it hurts to admit it, hurts her right in the Hulbury pride, that the actual best fish and chips of Galar isn’t from her hometown – and the fact she’s probably two beers too far now, but. 

Really. 

“What’s yours?” She asks, leaning back, one eyebrow arched. “League fuck-marry-kill, I mean. Since you weren’t there to post it online.” 

There’s a frisson in the air, in the way he turns to look at her, head bobbing sideways, like it’s too heavy to hold upwards. Which might be, honestly. His hair’s out there giving hers a run for its money, particularly in the half of the shoot they actually got around to have. And then he grins. 

“Kill Rose,” he says, sneer just twitching along the corner of his lip. 

“Fuck Rose,” Nessa replies very primly, perfectly enunciated with the quiet echo of a surf crashing home. “So, yes.” 

Piers’ grin widens, sliver by sliver, eyes bright – his eyes are brighter than she remembers them being, for all he’s still the same he’s always been – and reaches out to clink his beer with hers. 

“Indeed,” he says, and then takes back a swing. “Marry Milo.” 

“Shut up,” Nessa snaps on reflex, squinting at him. 

“You’d marry him too, so don’t even start,” Piers teases, smile crooked and eyes half-lidded, and then laughs when all Nessa can do is reach out for her own beer and take back a long, annoyed swing, because he’s right. “Got bad moments, not bad taste, love.” 

“Right,” she replies, shaking her head and reaching for the last of the remaining chips. 

“Now fuck, though,” Piers muses, rolling the words like Nessa’s favorite sommelier rolls wine in her mouth, trying to squeeze every last drop of meaning out of them, “maybe I shouldn’t say. Too scandalous.” 

There’s that edge again, sharp like a razor tumbling down the swinging vowels of his drawl: a taunt and a promise all at once. 

“Why not?” She says, at length, and reaches out a leg across the couch, the sole of her foot – she takes off her shoes every chance she gets, if she could go barefoot through life, she’d be happy, truly happy, the same way she feels with sand between her toes and a lazy wave licking up her ankles the same way Sonia’s yamper licks her face – pressed against his knee until his leg jostles, gives in easy just like that. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

Piers startles, despite it all, and she thinks she likes that, likes him unbalanced and not quite smug. They’re in Spikemuth anyway, all bad decisions ever made can be explained away, or maybe they weren’t bad in the first place. 

Piers’ next big single is about sirens with gold in their eyes and the fools who drown themselves in them, and the entirety of social media loses its mind about it, not the least because they’re not done reeling back from the last music video and what eventually came of it. Nessa doesn’t worry over much about it, not the scandal, not the gossip. 

After all, he’s not Milo, it’s not like she’s going to marry him anyway. 


End file.
